


Don't you worry child

by alienawyvern



Series: Knife-eared pride [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, King Alistair, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:20:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6943333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienawyvern/pseuds/alienawyvern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loghain Mac Tir had never liked to see little girls cry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't you worry child

**Author's Note:**

> My Tabris got along quite well with Loghain when she spared him. Maybe because they have a lot in common. Both loved someone of higher status (Alistair and Rowan) and had to let them go for the good of Ferelden (and because Eamon is a ass and a power-hungry hypocrite. Wish I could have let him stay in coma).  
> Also, I think that Loghain loves his daughter and is a damn good father. It's a pity you only get to see that if you choose to execute him.  
> I don't know if Adaia Tabris being part of the Night Elves is canon, but I like it that way.

Loghain Mac Tir had never liked to see little girls cry.  
When Anora was little, she would sometimes come home with skinned knees or torn skirts, swollen eyes and dripping nose, and she would cling to his knees and sob and sniff until he decided to do something about it.  
At first, he had been terrified.  
The Maker bless Celia and her good soul. She would take her daughter and wipe her scrunched little face and kiss her forehead and giggle and coo until everything was alright and bright again. And he would stand there and stare, helpless, hands hanging useless by his sides, like the big stupid ape he was, marvelling at the lovely picture in front of him.  
And then, Celia had not been there anymore, and he had had to step in to take care of his little girl on his own and take her on his knees and give her sweets and toys and piggy-back rides and everything awkward and clumsy that he could do to see her smile again. His daughter's smiles were part of his greatests treasures, and he cherished every single one of them like a hard-won victory.

Then, suddenly, a time had come when Anora had stopped crying and stopped coming to him, and it had taken him a while to realized that he missed thoses moments. He was a father, and when he had finally acquired some skills in doing what fathers are meant to do, consoling their little girls and making them happy again, his own little girl did not needed him anymore.  
He felt sligthed.  
_Daughters never grow up, Anora. They remain six years old with pigtails and skinned knees. Forever._  
He meant it.  
But there were other little girls in this world than Anora, and he still did not like to see them cry either. He thought himself quite skilled when it came to handling that particular sort of situation.  
But Kallian Tabris was not Anora.  
Kallian Tabris was entirely something _else._  
And he did not know how handle her.  
At all.

Not like that, as she was hunched against the wall in a corner, ugly sobs wrenching her small frame, an empty bottle of Antivan wine abandoned on the floor along with an unrolled scroll bearing the seal of Denerim.  
He struggled to remember that this broken little girl was the same that had defeated him almost single-handedly in a duel, united Ferelden and ended a Blight.  
It was just not right.  
But there she was, another crying child, with a little heart that was breaking.  
Because that was what she was.  
A _child._  
  
How old was she, anyway?  
Surely, she was younger than Maric's bastard that had married Anora and was currently rubbing his ungrateful arse over Ferelden's throne. And said bastard, he could remember it quite well, had been a squirming, screaming red-faced bundle in his mother's arms a little more than twenty five years ago.  
Which made the girl a little less than that. Twenty something. It meant that she had not even been two decades old when she had killed the Archdemon.  
_And_ made a King or two.  
_And_ united a country.  
Amongst other things.  
All that in less than a year.  
It certainly impressive, and it was a bit _much_ , Loghain had to admit. He himself would have spread that on at least a decade.  
No wonder it was weighing down on her.  
People needed moments like that. Breaking points. Even three years later.

But she was crying and it was too loud and his ears would not be able to bear that ruckus any longer, and she was the Warden Commander of Ferelden, and Adaia Tabris' daughter and spitting image, for the Maker's sake. She was supposed to be strong, just like Adaia had been. Young, but fierce. He had not asked what had become of her, after the Night Elves had been disbanded. He had not dared. Along with her comrades in arms, Adaia had vanished in the shadows, and thirty years later a girl that bore her name and her features and her eyes had jumped out of it right to his face.  
He had been pleasantly surprised. Before she challenged in a game of power that he had lost, of course.  
She could not afford weaknesses.  
He had to do something.  
What?  
Well...something.  
He would figure it out.

The girl stopped hiding her face in her arms and sneered, finally noticing his presence. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks damp, her nose dripping. It was positively disgusting, which was a shame because she could be quite pretty if she wanted to.  
But then again, Anora had been like that, too, and had wiped her nose on his tunic more than once, and he had not find that repulsive at all. _Endearing_ , in fact.  
"Just go away", Tabris spat, frantically wiping her face.  
How _rude_.  
She obviously deemed being found in this embarrassing position by him, the traitor, the slaver, the _monster_ , utterly humiliating.  
He could not blame her.

He bend down and picked the scroll on the floor. The wax seal was Maric's. Well, _Alistair_ ' _s,_ now, he supposed. He still could not bring himself to adjust.  
_Let it be known that on this day, the sixth of Pluitanis, 9:34 Dragon, her Royal Highness, Queen Anora Theirin, has given birth to a healthy son, Duncan of house Theirin, who shall be presented at court on the..._  
Oh.  
Alright.  
He was a grandfather.  
He would have been overjoyed, once. Except that a lot of things had happened since "once".  
And he was not.

Loghain looked at the girl and he knew. He knew what she was thinking. He knew why it hurt so much.  
So long had Anora thought to be barren. So long had she been accused of being unable to fulfill her duty as queen and conceive the heir Ferelden craved. It had hurt her, but she had not even let her own father sooth that hurt. Perhaps she had thought herself to be too old for that.  
In the end, her wish had be granted. She had a son.  
Tabris, on the other hand, had been barren since the blood of the Joining had stained her lips, had known it for sure and had been fine with it. Perhaps had she never even wanted or considered a child. Except that the man who had been her lover had now a son with another woman, a son she could never have hoped to give him, and never would. Perhaps she had clung to this tiny spark of hope, that perhaps, in time, he would return to her.  
And now that child was taking that from her, too.

Loghain was not young and not in love, and definitely not a woman, but he knew it hurt.  
And he also knew that he needed Warden Commander Tabris of Ferelden to be as strong and stubborn and brash as she used to be. The whimpering mess in front of him would not do. He did not even like the girl, or perhaps a little. But he respected her.  
And even if his own daughter was involved, she did not deserve the lot she had gotten for all her sacrifices, all because she was an Elf, and a Grey Warden, and not what Ferelden and _Eamon Guerrin_ wanted. On top of that, he, _Loghain Mac Tir_ , was still alive. It certainly had not help.  
He felt like he owed her something.

So Loghain sat on the floor next to her, all his bones creaking. He winced. _Grey Warden stamina_ , perhaps, but he was still growing old and his body daily reminded him of that. For what he wanted to do, though, he did not particularly needed to be young and fit. Just to be _there_.  
He wrapped his arm around the girl's shoulders, and she went completely stiff. He braced himself for a shove, but she did not move.  
"There was a girl, once", he started.  
She stared at him in disbelief, her puffy eyes widening. He cleared his throat.  
"She was beautiful, brave and strong. She was my shieldsister and my friend. There was nothing I wouldn't have done for her."  
Tabris relaxed slightly.  
"I loved her", he said, "and she loved me. I was around your age or so. A little older, perhaps. I thought it would last forever."  
"What happened?" Tabris asked, her voice hoarse from crying, a little slurred from alcohol.  
He huffed.  
"Peasants don't marry princesses, even if they are war heroes that saved their country."

 _Hero of River Dane._  
_Hero of Ferelden._  
What use was the fancy title for, in the end?  
Powder thrown into the eyes of the world, of the little people, but for those who held the power to give such names, it did not change what one was.  
And what were they?  
_A mud-covered farmer._  
_An alienage knife-ear._  
The high-and-mighties only saw that. Bravery, strength, worth, that did not matter. _Blood_ did. And both their bloods were _unworthy_.  
"She married a King and gave birth to one", he said, "and I let her do this, because it was the right thing to do. It was what Ferelden needed."  
"Ferelden asks much", Tabris retorted dryly.  
And Ferelden took a lot, too.

"I thought I would never love again, after her. I didn't think I even could. But then I met this wonderful woman..."  
And Celia had not been Rowan and he had never asked her to, because she had been _enough_. She had been beautiful and brave and strong and had healed his heart and his body. He had been happy, with her. He could not have asked for more.  
"And so will you", he stated. "One day, there will be someone who will look at you and who won't see your ears or your blood, but something worth fighting for."  
"When?" she snapped.  
Oh, that he knew _not_. But he had seen the way the Howe boy looked at her, with that particular mix of awe and defiance that indicated confusion of feelings. He had already shared her bed more than once. That was the worst kept secret of all. Why would he not share her heart as well? Granted, he was older than her, but he seemed a decent enough person, not like his father. Perhaps there was the beginning of something here.  
She was a _child_ , after all, and children had, eventually, to _grow up._

"I miss him so much", she sobbed angrily, and buried her face in his shoulder, her fingers clutching on his collar.  
"Aye, he whispered, "and I miss them too."  
His tunic was growing wet and sticky with tears. He did not care. It had seen much worse. And he knew that Tabris would never admit it, but she was glad that he was there to held her. Which was priceless. He was glad too.  
He had never liked to see little girls cry, after all.


End file.
